I switch off to his empty excuses and apologies, just ensuring I speak in all the right places.
“It’s okay, Forbes. It’s going to be okay.”
“I love you,” he breathes. “I can’t lose you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
I feel his mood shift, and I know what’s next. It always happens after he beats me.
His hand moves to my jeans and he starts unzipping them, slipping his hand inside, and into my panties. “I love you so much, Mia. Let me make this better. Please.”
I close my eyes and nod my assent.
I don’t fight him on this. I don’t fight him on anything.
So I close my eyes and let Forbes strip my clothes from me. I let him have sex with me against the wall because it’s all I know.
And as wrong as this sounds, a part of me craves to feel good. To feel loved. Even if it is fake … but for this moment, here, listening to Forbes tell me how much he needs me, how there’s no one like me, how he could love no other—I can close my eyes and pretend that it’s real; that I’m being loved in the way I can only dream of.
When Forbes is done, he carries me through to my bedroom.
Lifting the cover back, he lays me down and climbs in behind me, pulling me up tight against him. His arms cage me in.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ll never hurt you again. Never.”
I close my eyes, and force the words out, “I love you too.”
After a time, I feel Forbes’ breaths even out, so I slip out from under his grip.
I walk into the dark kitchen, not bothering to turn the light on, and open the refrigerator door. The light glows through the room. I stare at the contents, pain and self-loathing stabbing like needles in my skin.
I just want to escape. I want to be free.
Free again, like I was the day Oliver died.
I felt like a giant that day. Like I could do or achieve anything.
But all I’ve managed to do was replace Oliver with Forbes. What does that say about me?
It says that I’m screwed up. Damaged.
Things I already know.
And I can’t get away from Forbes. It’s not like I can just break up with him. Women like me don’t get to break up with men like Forbes.
I’m only free when he says so.
And he won’t.
I know this because I’m ideal for the life he wants.
I’m pliable. Controllable. Visually, I look the part. I come from money, and I have the right breeding as I overheard his father telling him once. I’m training to be a doctor, a surgeon like Oliver was. It wasn’t my chosen career path, but Oliver told me I was going to be a surgeon, so I’m going to be a surgeon.
All of these attributes work perfectly for Forbes.
Men like him choose a woman like an employer chooses candidates for jobs—cold and methodical. Love has nothing to do with it, even though Forbes probably makes himself believe that love is a part of it.
Then one day, in the not too distant future, I’ll become Mrs. Forbes Chandler. We’ll have kids, and Forbes will continue to beat on me regularly as an outlet for his anger and failings.
On the outside, we’ll have a perfect marriage. And behind closed doors we’ll be everything that could be wrong with a marriage. Day in and day out I’ll wear the façade. I’ll be the perfect wife to Forbes just like I was the perfect daughter for Oliver to parade around.
Then degrade and beat senseless the moment the doors to our house slammed shut.
Forbes has never asked about my past. Never questioned the scars that mar those secret parts of my body.
I remember being so afraid the first time we made love. Afraid he would ask about them, but he never did. Part of me was relieved but disappointed.
I encouraged myself to believe that he hadn’t asked because he didn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable, or upset me by highlighting them.
Truth is, he didn’t ask because he didn’t care. My scars probably validated that I was exactly the right girl for him.
Maybe he saw it in me the second our eyes met in that bar that night.
Like knows like, right?
Reaching into the fridge, I start pulling out food, setting it on the counter.
Leaving the door open for light, I turn to the cabinet to get more food. When I’m sure I have enough to see me through, I tear off the foil from yesterday’s saved chicken. And I start eating.
***
I’m sitting on the floor, sweat dampening my skin, my hands sticky from food. My stomach full and aching, my back pressed up against the door. Surrounding me are empty food containers and wrappers.
Knowing I can’t sit here all night, I get to my feet. My stomach aches under the pressure of gravity.
I’m uncomfortable. I feel sick.
I relish the feeling.
I tidy the mess. Containers in the dishwasher. Wrappers pushed to the bottom of the trash can, so Forbes won’t see them. Not that he’d question it, but better to be safe. I try never to leave a reason to set his anger off.